Only Through Victory
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: You know him as "The Butcher", but every now and then, we catch a glimpse of an entirely different man. What if a moment of vulnerability were to cause a young rebel woman to fall in love with the ill-fated Tavington? Would it change his course of action- or is he already too far gone? I own nothing, save for the original poetry in this piece. Complete and under revision.
1. Chapter 1

Every morning during the sky's final hour of darkness, Annabelle Casey would sit alone in the schoolyard. When this began, the townsfolk thought it to be a rather peculiar event. A young woman sitting unattended near the woods at wartime was cause for worry, after all. And the manner in which sat, perched on the lowest limb of an apple tree with her little buckled shoes swinging midair, was worrisome enough to begin with.

Even after they learned her reason for being there, concerns still arose. Annabelle was the eldest of Solomon Casey's three daughters. He had no sons. So, when he enlisted in the Continental Army, he passed his post as schoolteacher to Annabelle. This was a common thing to do at the time. But Annabelle, as you will soon learn, was anything but common.

To begin, she was never afraid to say what was on her mind. A trait that was often stifled in proper schooling and certainly not admired in a teacher. Annabelle had something to say about everything, it seemed. And when she wasn't attempting to tell the old woman next to her in church, in precise detail, exactly which button had flown from her night gown and popped her poor sister in the eye the night before, Annabelle was humming. Or worse, reciting.

Our story begins on a morning just like any other. Annabelle was curled comfortably on her favorite ledge of the old apple tree with her books and various teaching materials below her (resting dangerously close to a puddle of mud, I might add). In one hand, she extended a clear canning jar into the morning air while the other ushered a handful of fireflies past the jar's lip.

"Splendid! Seven fireflies." Annabelle twisted the lid shut, feeling tremendously pleased with herself. "Now to come up with a poem about them before my pupils arrive!" She directed her gaze upwards, past the rustling leaves towards the gradually extinguishing glow of a cluster of faraway stars and, as was her way, waxed poetical.

 _"_ _Come, listen to my story_

 _Of how seven tiny stars_

 _Abandoned heaven's glory_

 _To live inside a jar"_

"No, that's silly." She muttered, draping her long braid of corn silk-colored hair over her left shoulder. Down the road a ways, Annabelle could see the tiny bobbing black hats and lacey bonnets of her approaching students. "Which is why they will love it, of course! Maybe we could even come up with a poem together! Yes, that will be our lesson for today. Dash arithmetic and dash Latin, too!"

As Annabelle collected her (only somewhat) muddy supplies, the jar slipped from her hand and started to roll towards the mossy undergrowth of the nearby wood. She followed it for two or three feet before she stopped, sensing that something or someone was watching her from behind the trees. There, concealed behind a curtain of low-hanging branches stood a British soldier in a handsome red coat. Annabelle did not know his exact ranking, but she could tell simply by his stance and presentation that he was not someone you wanted to cross.

"I must warn the children." She said, thinking aloud.

"That won't be necessary, Ma'am." Said the soldier, standing perfectly still. His eyes were bright as the clear summer sky, even there in the dim light. "Pick up your jar." When Annabelle didn't move, he spoke again with force. "Pick up your jar!" She knelt and followed his command, shaking only slightly. "Now, finish your poem." He demanded.

Annabelle looked on, both terrified and confused by this confrontation. "You want me to finish my poem?"

"Yes, I'd rather like to know how it ends." His eyes dropped to the jar in her hand. "What are those things, anyway?"

Her face softened. He certainly was a charming man, if not a touch snobbish. "They don't have fireflies in your country?" She asked, sliding the blade of her finger over the top of the jar. The footsteps of the approaching children began to grow in volume. "Go into the schoolhouse, children!" She called to them, "I'll be along shortly!"

"The poem…" he urged from his place behind the trees, "the seven stars have gone to live inside the jar…."

Annabelle felt her heart race, she was usually spectacular at composing poems from the top of her head. She looked down and saw that his hand was resting on a long blade that hung from his belt.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the soldier said, reading her thoughts, "just tell me how it ends, it's been a long while since I've encountered a truly literary mind."

Annabelle flushed, surely, he was being sarcastic. His suppression of any visible emotion made it seem that way, but if felt good to have an eager audience- despite who he was and how anxious he made her feel. She held the jar in front of her, twisting it slightly beneath the newborn light of day. The glow in the fireflies' bellies would last only so much longer. She continued her poem from where she'd left off:

 _"_ _Which to them was a palace_

 _Made entirely of glass_

 _Free from a world of malice_

 _Until it came to pass"_

Her eyes gravitated towards his, he smiled with them just a fraction as if to encourage her to continue. She twisted the lid and removed it, allowing the fireflies to fly into the leafy canopy above their heads. Inspired by their liberation, Annabelle concluded her recitation:

 _"_ _That the ceiling 'bove the seven_

 _Made way for their ascent_

 _To drift back up to heaven_

 _So… homeward the stars went."_

"See? It wasn't that difficult, was it?" He asked. Potentially satisfied, but Annabelle couldn't tell.

In the clearing behind him, Annabelle could see a large chestnut horse pushing its mighty nose through a thicket.

She crossed her arms. She'd given him what he wanted and yet, he hadn't moved an inch. "You're Cavalry, aren't you?" Annabelle gestured to the horse with a grin.

"It's better that you don't know. Miss?"

Annabelle shook her head, still feeling terribly anxious about this entire situation. "I really shouldn't be talking to you."

The man turned, making to climb the height of the horse's back and ride away. "No, perhaps not." He glanced down at her and held the reins steady. "You recite beautifully." His bright eyes narrowed as a thought, a whim more than anything was born behind them. "Fireflies, you say?" With that, he drove his spur into the horse's side and rode away into the forest without so much as a glance back in Annabelle's direction.


	2. Chapter 2

In the days that followed, Annabelle remained quiet about the soldier. That is not to say that she forgot about him or the conversation that they'd shared in the schoolyard. But after one week's time, Annabelle found that she was once again able to sit on the limb of her beloved apple tree each morning as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened there before.

Despite her silence about the encounter, a sort of awareness of the redcoats and their influence on the surrounding towns arose. Annabelle was beginning to spend just a fraction more of her time listening to the townsfolk speak about current events and, in turn, less time interrupting them with her usual jokes and observations.

Annabelle naturally assumed the role of the idealist in her family. Whenever one of her sisters expressed sadness or concern for their father or their childhood friend and neighbor, Harold Whitley, who volunteered to fight as well, Annabelle would go to great lengths to turn their attention towards something more cheerful.

"Now, I don't want you to worry," her father said to her before riding off for his first assignment, "about the world outside of our safe little town. There are hundreds and hundreds of men just like me and Harold who are fighting to keep our families safe from harm. Keep your head down, work hard and don't lose sight of your idealism. Your optimism. Don't lose sight of Annabelle."

A lovely sentiment, to be sure. But the war was a living, breathing thing and it was evolving quickly.

One Sunday morning, not even a month after Annabelle met the mysterious redcoat- the town's first interloper; the Casey girls arrived at church, assumed their usual seats near the back of the congregation, and sensed an incredible tension, unlike anything they'd ever felt in their safe place of worship before.

Several hushed voices rose above others. Annabelle listened to them closely. "It's terrifying. Just terrifying." A young woman gasped. "That's too close to home, if you ask me!" Piped the recognizable voice of Louie, the town's one-eyed baker.

"Tabitha?" Annabelle asked the elderly spinster woman who she'd sat beside every Sunday. "What has happened to make everyone so grim today?"

Tabitha reached out and touched Annabelle's hand with her clammy, spiderlike fingers. "Oh, my child. I dare not speak it."

Annabelle turned to both of her sisters and sighed. "Scarlett." She whispered past Delila, the youngest of the Casey girls who sat in the blissful daze of childhood oblivion between them. "Will you please ask Hector what has happened?"

To this, the young redheaded boy named Hector turned to look across the pew at Annabelle. "What are you saying my name for, Annasmell?" The nasty little boy wrinkled his nose. She challenged him with a playful glare, reached for the nearest hymnal and used it to gesture a swatting motion in his direction.

The fun was short-lived, of course, when Reverend Peter Chelsea entered from the back room. The somber expression on his face pulled even the rowdy back row back to reality.

"My children." Reverend Chelsea said. "Before we begin with today's sermon, I ask that we pray for the lives of the Hamilton and Rhodes Families. We have no answers as to why the British are beginning to target our rural farmers along with-" he paused, everyone knew what he was about to say, but were silently hoping that it remain left unsaid " their wives and children. For the benefit of those who live on the outskirts of town," he lifted his sallow, wrinkled face up from his podium and looked directly at Annabelle before moving his gaze to little Delilah and Scarlett, "such as our friends, the Caseys, the Whitleys and the Burges, I ask that we open our doors and share our hearths and bread with them until this threat passes. And now. Let us pray."

Heads were bowed in unison. Except for Annabelle's. Vocal little Annabelle who always had to get her word in. "Reverend Chelsea?" She called before the group prayer could commence. "I'm sorry, Reverend Chelsea. But I have one question for you…"

He raised his eyes. The sound of his tapping foot could be heard from beneath the podium. "Honestly, child! If Solomon and his late wife weren't my dear, dear friends-"

"I know, Reverend Chelsea. And I'm sorry." The congregation remained silent, but Annabelle could sense a growing frustration coming at her from all angles. "But if the British are threatening our rural families, wouldn't bringing us into the town cause the troops to move inward?"

"Miss Casey. How much longer must you use our Sunday gatherings as an opportunity to revel in the sound of your own voice?" The old Reverend asked, receiving several chuckles and nods throughout the room. "I understand that you are the type to… think aloud, but stating what is blatantly obvious-"

"That's the point that I was trying to make!" Annabelle cried. "It is blatantly obvious that the troops are going to move into our towns. The war isn't _becoming_ personal as I've heard muttered all about town these last few weeks, it was personal to begin with! They are trying to weed _us_ out. Not only our military."

"Well, Child," he said with a half-tolerant laugh, "we're all open to any suggestions you might have for us."

Annabelle tugged on the end of her long, golden braid in thought. "Very well… words. Conversation. The most common response to violence is more violence. Perhaps through conversation, we could come to a more peaceful resolve when confronted."

From his seat, Louie erupted with a loud, cough of a laugh. "It sounds to me like the girl is suggesting that we _talk_ King George's men away!"

"Well, if anyone in the colony could, it would have to be our own Annabelle Casey!" Hector's mother confirmed in a venomous tone. She leaned over, staring daggers from her seat beside her son. "Are you happy girl? This morning was supposed to be for honoring those innocent people who were killed and you made it about _you_! Your father would be ashamed. As would your mother."

Once Annabelle donned the congregation's desired look of humiliation, the service continued as planned. Deep down, however, she felt no remorse for speaking her part that day.

The weeks wore on without any word of related attacks- so, the Casey and Whitley families did not abandon their homes. They were on very friendly terms with one another and had always seemed like one large family that resided in two houses.

When their mother passed, Mary Whitley became a mother figure to the Casey girls, even though she wasn't like their dainty waif of a mother in the least. Mary was a heavyset farmer's wife- tough as nails and inherently protective of anyone or any cause that she felt passionate towards. It had been suggested many times that Annabelle gained her passion and tenacity through her time spent with Mary. Everything else, she and her sisters seemed to have learned from Harold Whitley, Mary's only child.

Annabelle had always suspected that she would marry Harold when the time was right. As a matter of fact, it had been discussed formally between families several times; but the war sent their plans into an inevitable tailspin. It was unclear to Annabelle whether Harold was in agreement with her on the matter, but she did breathe a sigh of relief when she learned that such plans would have to be put on hold. She did love him. Not in the sort of love that Annabelle had read about in stories or rhymes; but more a loving devotion to him and his family. Each of the Casey sisters dearly loved the rough-and-tumble boy next door. That is why it was so earthshattering for the Caseys when they learned that Harold had been injured in combat.

Mary was inconsolable as she waited for Harold to arrive. She'd asked to be alone, but Annabelle managed to force herself through the tiny farmhouse's front door anyway.

"Mary?" She coaxed, reaching out to touch her arm. "Mary, I know you think I'm going to demand answers."

"I don't think you will," Mary moaned, raising her red-as-a-radish face to the heavens in annoyance as Annabelle entered the living room, "I know you will."

The two women sat side by side on the sofa and Annabelle placed her tiny blonde head on Mary's shoulder. "I only want to be with you."

Mary raised her hand and stroked the end of Annabelle's hair with adoration, the way a mother might do for a daughter. "You're a thorn in my side, Child. You know that?" Annabelle laughed aloud at this and could feel Mary exhale the smallest of chuckles. "You've followed me like a shadow into even my darkest of days."

"And I'll always be here to do just that."

Mary contemplated Annabelle's words for only a moment. "That reminds me… I heard about your little outburst in church a while back."

"Which one?"

"Oh, you know… maybe we should try _talking_ with the British soldiers if they come knocking on our doors or into our town. You wouldn't really be that rash?"

Annabelle removed her head from Mary's shoulder, reclaiming her braid with a tiny tug. She sat upright and looked her in the eyes. "I have been that rash." She confessed. "And I'm still here, aren't I?"

Mary's childlike face became even more radish-like in shade. "You must outgrow this storytelling phase, Girl! For all our sakes!"

"This isn't one of my stories, Mary. It really happened. I was waiting outside of the school a while back and a redcoat spoke with me. Not about anything important, really, just fireflies and poetry. Then, he jumped on his horse and rode away. He was actually very civil with me."

Mary's mouth twitched slightly at Annabelle's use of the word "civil". "Tell me more." She urged, surprising both Annabelle and herself.

"What more is there to tell?"

"Describe him to me."

"Dark hair, blue eyes, fair skin…" Annabelle mused, finding it difficult to conjure up an image of the man she'd found so intriguing while under Mary's judgmental gaze. "He was clothed in red with an embellishment of green velvet, I believe-" Annabelle was about to confess to Mary that she'd found him rather handsome when she interrupted her train of thought.

"He was on horseback?"

"He was. I asked if he was Cavalry, but he didn't provide me with any such answers."

Mary sprung from her seat and began to pace towards the window. "I know exactly what he was… when did this occur?"

"Towards the end of Summer." Annabelle watched Mary begin to tap her thick fingers against her chin. "Why? Should I have reported it or something?"

"I don't know. I don't know if that would have done any good… I don't even know if he was one of the men who…" she stopped herself. "Do you know why Harold is able to come home so soon?" Annabelle shook her head in response. "Because he wasn't even a day's ride away from here when… it happened. That's how close the combat is to our homes." She began to pace again, passion rising in her voice. "And those men- those men on their horses. They are clothed in the exact same fashion as the man that you described. They call themselves the 'Green Dragoons'. And I can tell that before long, they will be the ones that we will have to fear the most."


	3. Chapter 3

The Whitley House had seen more than its share of sadness through the years. Annabelle was only seven when it happened, but she could still remember the day that Mr. Whitley fell from his horse on his way into town and cracked his skull on a jagged stone. For years thereafter, she could still hear poor Mary's cries of disbelief and devastation when she received word of his death. Harold's grave injury weighed just as heavily on Annabelle when she walked through those familiar corridors of the old farmhouse that evening.

To make matters even more difficult for Mary, she'd agreed to provide care for three additional young men from Harold's troop. Their homes were much farther away and they could not remain out in the elements for much longer. Scarlett assisted Mary with this task while little Delilah remained nearby. It was not the most hospitable environment for a five-year-old; but she, too was no stranger to injury or death.

Annabelle refused to leave Harold's side and didn't catch so much as a wink of sleep all night. He stirred occasionally and she sensed a pattern before too long. Her humming seemed to keep his mind off the pain and focused on remaining restful and still. Around the time the nearby clock chimed in the five o'clock hour, Harold sprung awake.

"Hummingbird." The muscular blonde boy gasped. "Where has my Hummingbird gone?"

She caressed his rough, tan hand. Harold had called out this strange demand in his sleep nearly every night when he while he was away. Nobody in his company had any idea what it meant, but Annabelle knew right away. "Hummingbird is here. My voice is just a little tired."

"I went away, too." He moved his head from side to side, somewhat delirious. "I'm sorry that I went away."

She lifted his hand to her lips, planting the tiniest of kisses between his knuckles.

"What kind of a poem would you like to hear?"

He shifted about. "Hummingbird?" Was his only and final response.

Annabelle felt her chest swell in pain. She'd never seen him like this before, but witnessed a similar delirium in her mother before she was taken away by an unforgiving fever. "You want to hear a poem about a hummingbird?"

It was hard to see just how much his coloring had changed in the low lighting. His eyes, glassy and sightless desperately searched the space for any sort of contact in what would become his final moments.

"I'm here." Annabelle assured him, finally knowing what he must have meant.

Then in perfect unison with her realization, he found her and, without so much as a blink, turned to stone.

She knew when she saw the angry, red lacerations across Harold's neck and chest that he would not survive. But Annabelle possessed the amazing ability to trick herself into looking on the bright side of things. When he died that night in front of her, her seemingly unfailing idealism suffered its most painful defeat yet.

Every single one of her senses seemed to shut down. She could scarcely breathe, let alone think straight. As she stumbled towards the doorway, still fighting to process what she had just witnessed, a rude knock echoed through the silent farmhouse. The only thing that mattered to Annabelle was locating Mary and finding some way- some semblance of words that would sufficiently explain the death of her son.

Once it was apparent to whoever was outside that nobody was going to answer, the front door was kicked in with a mighty "crash" followed by the voices of several British soldiers.

"Lucas Thompson, you damned fool. Not James Thompson." Snarled the shadow of a man as he knocked over a nearby coatrack in the dim morning light.

"I thought it was James Thompson who was the spy." Whispered a second shadow whose entrance was much more quiet in nature.

Annabelle wiped her eyes as she headed towards the balcony to get a better view of what was causing the commotion. Four redcoats became visible on the floor below. By the time the fifth stepped in, their argument over which of the Thompson brothers was a spy and which was not had reached new heights.

"Silence!" Their newest addition growled. "It doesn't matter. They're all going to die, anyway."

"And are you truly sure that they are here, Colonel?"

"Yes." Said the tallest as he moved to the front of what was already an orderly queue. "I never forget a horse. Let alone when it appears alongside two horses that I've seen before. They are in this house. I'm sure of it."

She couldn't make out any of their physical attributes until they started to move towards the base of the staircase.

"Are you the one who is in charge here?" She asked, looking down. Although her eyes were tired and sore, they hardly needed any time to adjust. She knew it was the same man from the schoolyard. "You, I assume?"

"Are you stupid, Girl?" He asked, looking on without even a the smallest suggestion of familiarity.

As Annabelle moved towards them, they readied themselves for combat. But she was unafraid. "A boy just died here." She whispered lowly to prevent Mary from finding out this way. "I am the only one awake. If you have any mercy, you will leave this house and come back at a better time."

The Colonel looked to his men and gestured for them to climb the stairs without him. Annabelle made to chase them, but he grabbed her hard by the wrist and cornered her against the railing.

"Now, I'll ask you one more time and one more time only… are you stupid?"

She examined his face as closely as she could. Perhaps she was mistaken. The cogs in her mind were turning at a rampant pace- seeking some sort of cheerful justification. She'd seen one set of twins before in her life. It was unlikely, of course, but the hope of it gave her comfort. The soldier she remembered from that day had kindness in him. It was hidden deep within, yes, but it was there. This man, on the other hand...

"That's what I thought." He said, pursing his lips. "You're just as stupid as I thought you to be." He released her from his grasp and turned to head upstairs.

"I am not stupid. But you- you are wicked and petty and-"

He stopped and turned, his handsome face had twisted itself into an even more menacing expression than before. "That was your cue to run. If you're here when I get back, I will kill you."

The town was a five-minute ride by horseback. But only if you were lucky enough to have a horse who was ready and willing to sprint. Surely the redcoats would be finished inflicting whatever torments they had planned for the poor sleeping souls upstairs by the time that Annabelle returned with aid. But everything from the shocking death of her friend to the even more shocking appearance of the redcoats and threat that the Colonel had made on her life propelled her to try.

In the faint light of morning, Annabelle could see that the three horses had indeed tied up lazily beside the corral. If only she had taken the time earlier to bring them into the available stalls! Maybe then they Colonel wouldn't have recognized that they belonged to a potential spy and the invasion would not be happening in the first place.

She untied the reins of a large gray horse who, due to hear earlier neglect, was still saddled and ready for riding. She tore into the bottom of her long nightgown to make the ride easier and her race against the clock began.

As Annabelle rode, she thought of Harold. She wondered to herself how many times they'd flown down this exact trail on horseback- and grieved the painful notion that they would never ride together again. The Whitleys were horse farmers. Since they were as good as family, the Casey girls learn to ride just as proficiently as any young soldier. So agility was of no concern to Annabelle even now as she straddled the horse in her bloomers and slapped her bare feet against the animal's sides.

After the first couple of doors were shut in her face, Annabelle sought the help of the young boys of the Abbott family whose father was away at war, too, but a knowledgeable dealer of arms. She could surely trust that they had quick and steady hands. Her two teenage boys and their rough and tumble mother who was like Mary in stature and spirit heartily agreed to provide their assistance. So, onward the four of them went to frighten off the dreadful Colonel and his men...


	4. Chapter 4

When they arrived, the house was already engulfed in flames. The redcoats had assembled Mary, Scarlett and little Delilah on the lawn. All others were presumed dead.

"Stay behind the gate." Mrs. Abbott told the boys. "When I give the signal, build a line of defense across the road." When they dispersed, Mrs. Abbott turned her attention to Annabelle. "Miss Casey, it's no mystery that you've always been the town's bona fide talker. I'm going to need you to help me negotiate."

She wanted to respond, but the lump in her throat that she'd been fighting all morning combined with the inhalation of smoke made talking difficult. A rare occurrence for Annabelle. "Harold." She began, fighting against a strong current of emotions. "Harold is gone. And they killed those boys."

There was a brief flash of remorse across Mrs. Abbott's face, but nothing more. She reached into her saddlebag and presented Annabelle with a musket. "If worse comes to worse and you have to shoot-"

"I can't. That's why I needed your help in the first place."

"Believe it or not, you can't talk your way out of everything." She continued to extend the musket until Annabelle took it and together, they rode forward onto the lawn.

"Colonel?" Annabelle called as she approached them.

He turned, clearly irritated by her intrusion. "What did I tell you last time!?"

"Colonel, this is Molly Abbott." She moved the musket in her hand so that the side of it rested across her chest in a gesture of introduction, parlay and warning all at once. "I am Annabelle Casey. The two girls down there are my sisters, Scarlett and Delilah and the woman who owns this home is Mary Whitley." Her eyes moved to the three who looked on with confusion and fear.

"What are you doing?" Mary snapped. "They've just set fire to my home!"

"And yourself?" Annabelle continued. "What is your name? Your men? I, for one, am of the opinion that we should get to know one another so we can properly discuss what has happened here this morning."

Without any further hesitation, the dark-haired Colonel pulled a musket from his side and took aim. Annabelle kept her musket laid with its side, pressed against her chest.

"I've read about you British soldiers." Annabelle said.

Everyone surrounding them seemed to take a simultaneous gasp, surely, she was about to talk herself to death. Mrs. Abbott's eyes moved to the other soldiers. They were watching her intently, anticipating her next move.

"You are supposed to be gentlemen. Negotiators." Brave little Annabelle continued. "Now, I demand answers. And so does Mrs. Whitley."

His face remained the very much same, but there appeared to be a change behind his eyes, as though the beast within them had been temporarily restrained. "It's quite simple, Miss Casey. Your friend provided care to a spy and received the appropriate punishment. Now, if you continue to waste my time with your stupidity-"

Suddenly, there came a sound from behind the gate. The Colonel gestured for one of his men to investigate its source. He returned not a moment later. "It would appear as though they were planning an ambush, Colonel Tavington."

His mouth twitched. "An ambush? Really? In that case, round them up and shoot them in the corral." He turned to Annabelle who hadn't moved or prepared to fire. "Except this one. I'd much rather her live with the remorse."

Of course, she was mortified when she heard his wicked plan. Of course. Even his men appeared to disagree with his reasoning. She could see them seizing Mrs. Abbott from her horse and marching Mary and her disbelieving sisters away in her periphery.

"I didn't quite specify, Sir." The soldier continued as he ushered the adolescent boys out from behind the gate. "Perhaps _ambush_ was a bit too strong of a word…"

Colonel Tavington looked, but wasn't affected in the least. "My order stands."

"Tavington?" Annabelle thought aloud with a nod. "So, you do have a name..."

He sighed. "I'm fixing to have your loved ones shot down like dogs and you're still talking!?"

"I will admit that I'm rather surprised, Colonel Tavington, to put the name to the face. I've heard whispers about town that you're quite the tyrant. When last we spoke, I was under the impression that you liked literature and poetry… and… fireflies among other silly things…"

They were entirely alone at this point, everyone else had moved to the corral. If she was going to persuade him, she'd have to do it quickly. She continued to watch him, seeking any indication of change in his demeanor.

"I know you believe that you are performing your duty," she continued, "but the murder of innocents…"

His gaze remained cold. She was out of solutions. She knew that she could say no more. It was not until the first shot rang out from behind the house and he saw the realization in young Annabelle's face, the terror in knowing that she had lost everything all in one day, that she finally glimpsed a change in him. Those terrible eyes seemed to have a veil lifted from them. There was nothing else that he could hide behind and with every shot that was fired, they became more and more vulnerable.

"You can still ask them to hold fire. Please!" She begged him, looking straight past his mask and into his soul.

Feeling invaded, Tavington looked away, occupying his eyes on the burning house and repeated, "My order stands."

"That is my family! Look at me!" She demanded but to no avail. "That's my family!"

Several more shots were fired. Then a chilling silence consumed the lawn. The weight of the pain that Annabelle felt was debilitating. She wanted so badly to allow herself to give into it- to finally allow herself to cry. But her desire to have one more glimpse the remorse he felt for what he had done- was somehow greater in that moment.

"Gather the horses!" He called to his men before moving his gaze to Annabelle, but daring not to look her in the eyes. "I will be having yours too, Miss. Keep your musket. And Godspeed."

"I know sorrow when I see it..." Annabelle mumbled as she dismounted. "The day that you let that part of you go, you will truly be a monster."

Tavington forced what appeared to be a laugh. She didn't know it at the time, but it was more of a tactic to alleviate the sorrow that Annabelle had spoken of. As she handed him the reins, he reached into his saddlebag and removed a brown leather book.

"For keeping those words of yours at bay." He said, still avoiding her gaze. He then coaxed the horses forward before she could say another word, leaving Annabelle once again, to watch him ride away and feeling overcome with an entirely new sensation. It would come to be the most painful pairing of emotions that she would ever harbor: a toxic infusion of the love for him that was already planted in her heart and unyielding hatred.

Author's note: Guest- thank you for the question! Since there's no PM option, I'll go ahead and answer it here. He did not recognize Annabelle in the previous chapter. In the staircase scene, she is nothing more than a roadblock. I'm approaching Tavington as a character who exists on two plains of consciousness. There are a couple of scenes in the film where we see him switch in and out of his role as "The Butcher" and I wanted to expand on that. Since she was standing between "The Butcher" and what he is hunting, all that he can see is red. Hopefully, the "veil" metaphor in this chapter helped clarify things. Hopefully. Lol. If you have any more questions down the line, please don't hesitate to ask. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story, I appreciate it more than words can express! -L.S.


	5. Chapter 5

The days wore on in deafening silence. Funerals were held in the churchyard for the Abbotts and the Casey girls, and Annabelle was faced with the dreaded task of writing to Mr. Abbott and, even more painfully, her own father.

Although she believed that returning to her old routine of rising early and spending her days at the schoolhouse would help her along, the grief that she felt, among other factors was far too deep. Something had happened in the process of mourning her losses- Annabelle's hatred for Tavington's actions moved inward. She began to blame herself and in turn, hate herself as well.

Her pupils received in full force the change in her demeanor. Before, she'd felt a kinship with the students. Although she was nearly 20 years of age and had done more than merely assist in raising her two younger sisters, she was still very much like a child in many regards. Surrounding herself with the curious minds and ceaseless imaginations of her pupils seemed to aid in preserving her own.

But now- they found that she was no longer the lively young woman who encouraged them to write poetry and sketch landscapes and constellations on their good parchment and notepads. She assumed a more formal approach- her father's method, and milled on each day about the fundamentals of basic arithmetic and the like. Occasionally, she would let the children read from Shakespeare again. But there was no blocking or costumes these days. They remained in their chairs until they were dismissed in the early evening.

After a week or so, Annabelle grew weary of the walk to her house and perhaps most of all, having to see the scorched skeleton of the Whitley House each day. So, she gathered her possessions one evening, tossed them in a small hand-drawn wagon and returned to the schoolhouse.

Several of her pupil's small chairs lined up against the wall made for a suitable bed when combined with her cozy feather blanket from home. Plus, she had plenty of materials should the hunger to create strike again, but the channel to the poetry that once resided within her seemed to be closed off for the time being.

Before giving in to the keen temptation of rest, Annabelle realized that the small notebook Tavington had "gifted" her with had made its way into the collection of items that she'd brought from home.

"Revolting thing." She muttered, sinking into the deep embrace of the down blanket. "Must have snuck in with my other books..."

She hadn't taken the time to give the notebook a proper examination and tossed it aside with the musket when she returned home that fateful morning not too long ago.

As she stretched herself out beneath her pool of moonlight, a thought dawned upon her. Perhaps there was something in those pages that she could use against him. The thought was brief, mind you, for Annabelle was not a vengeful woman even when confronted with this new mix of emotions that Tavington had brought to life in her.

Before long, her thoughts trailed into an entirely different direction. She recalled his moment of vulnerability. Those eyes that had been so near the verge of tears as he contemplated suspending his order of execution. Perhaps this development was purely fictional, but Annabelle had to believe that he thought of it. Perhaps she would gain better insight into his heart and mind if she were to look within those pages…

First, she gained a tactile knowledge of the book. It was roughly the size of Tavington's hand, the perfect size for recording quick thoughts as he rode from one battle to the next. Annabelle took a moment to imagine this scene. Although the binding was handsome, the edges folded outward slightly when the book was rested in her palm.

"It must have traveled with him to many battlefields." She thought, turning it over in her hand and examining the back upon which was the stamping of a crest with two bucking horses on either side of what she assumed to be a rapier. "Family crest, I wager. Riding must go back through the generations for the Tavingtons…"

Her nerves contorted slightly. What if she didn't want to read its contents? She decided that perhaps, if everything written within was all bad, it would provide her with closure to learn of his wickedness in the place in which they'd first met. She reached for her dressing gown and headed outside to her apple tree. Bringing along the musket just in case.

There was a chill in the air that night- but fortunately, minimal cloud coverage. She was able to see with ease thanks to the light provided by the moon.

Most of the pages within the book were blank; but Annabelle found the first ten or so to be of interest. She quickly learned that Tavington was not the literary man that she'd dreamt him to be. He was, instead more of a visual being. Each page contained a small collection of sketches. The first half of the images being that of various flora that was grown throughout what is known today as the American South. Abandoned drawings of landscapes could be found on the backs of some of the pages while more polished and decisive sketches could be found on the final five.

Annabelle nearly lost her balance when she turned a page to find the only drawing that had been created through imagination instead of sight- her seven fireflies scattered about within the walls of a transparent castle. Not only did he remember, in detail, the metaphor within her poem; but had recorded it among the other notable things of beauty he'd experienced in the colonies thus far.

She tucked the notebook into her dressing gown and leaned back, watching the leaves as they clicked against the surfaces of the overhanging apples. Her hands were now occupied by her musket from Mrs. Abbott. It contained one shot that she'd never fired. When she was growing up next door to the Whitleys, Harold had offered to teach her how to shoot; but Annabelle always refused. No, words, as I'm sure you've wagered so far was the only weapon that she'd ever wanted to arm herself with. Being the daughter of a schoolteacher, she'd just barely gotten away with it- even in this day in age.

She held the musket in front of her, trying her best to take aim at one of the apples. Her hand shook as she cocked the weapon. "Maybe if I actually knew how to fend for myself…" She mused, finding that her hand was growing more and more steady as her frustration grew. Then, crack! The musket fired and Annabelle flinched. When she recovered, she realized that the apple had fallen to the ground with a black hole through its center, piping billows of smoke.

Dark forms accompanied by the glow of candlesticks began to emerge from the surrounding houses. The click of several firearms sounded through the night.

"Don't shoot." Sounded the voice belonging to Reverend Chelsea as he approached the apple tree. "It's just little Annabelle Casey, causing a stir as always..." his wrinkled face seemed to glow like a beacon as he stared up at Annabelle from below. "Let me help you down, child."

"Oh, for the love of God Almighty! Leave her up there. Nuts belong in trees*, anyways…" Cried Louie the Baker, taking a feeble stab at humor with a wink from his one good eye.

"It's an apple tree, Mr. Goode. I got up here on my own accord and can come down at my own accord." Annabelle confirmed flatly, firing the empty musket at another apple with a "click".

The townsfolk began to huddle in the street below. Whispers of Annabelle's stability and the welfare of the children could be heard from all around.

"Very well." Said Reverend Chelsea. "We all deal with grief in different ways." He directed his attention to the growing crowd. "As an appointed head of this town and long-trusted friend of Solomon Casey, I will collect your children tomorrow morning in front of the school. All lessons shall be taught in the church until his return." He turned to Annabelle, "Until then, Miss Casey, try not to burn the place down."

With the Whitleys and the Abbotts gone, Annabelle was beginning to feel as though she didn't have a friend in the world. Whenever anyone in the town lost someone dear to them, the community would always come together in support. But everyone was quick to isolate poor Annabelle, just like they had been all her life. In addition, having just lost her ability to teach made her feel even more isolated than before. The commotion in the streets began to die down. Everyone headed back into their homes in hopes of spending the remainder of the night in peace with their families. Annabelle remained alone in her apple tree…

Author's Note: Thank you again for the reviews; I'm hoping this chapter helped to better clarify Annabelle's feelings for Tavington. ALSO, there will be much, much more Tavington among many other characters from the film in the coming chapters. The pace will pick up significantly in chapter 6. Honest. I'm trying to get this story written before returning to university next month, so you can expect chapters daily. Cheers! -L.S.

*Just to clarify, yes, that totally ridiculous and random passage (or the gist of it, anyway) is from Family Guy. Early morning, caffeine-infused writing sessions always tend to get a bit bizarre. Lol. Bear with.


	6. Chapter 6

Colonel Tavington's notebook seemed to beckon from within the pocket of Annabelle's housecoat. As the night wore on, she must have revisited its pages seven or eight times. During these visits, she would trace his drawings with her fingertips. Trying in vain each time to understand how the same hands that created in painstaking detail the tiny veins within each leaf or the delicate petals of each tiny flower- could be stained with so much innocent blood.

She longed to learn about his past, his family, and the ambitions he had apart from warfare. Above all, she longed to understand this duality- nay, polarity that seemed to reside in him. But how? The notebook bore little answers. So, Annabelle did a rather childlike thing:

She glanced down to the place where she first saw him. When she was certain that there was nobody around, she removed herself from the limb of the apple tree and walked to the place. Once there, she turned and assumed the exact stance, position, and perspective as he did. He was significantly taller than she, so she had to stand on her tip toes on the rocky terrain to gain the exact view that he must have had.

Pretending to watch herself sitting in the apple tree proved to be an awkward task. So, she quickly turned on her tiptoes to the place that she remembered his horse to be and from there, began to move about in an outrageously silly skip that was supposed to resemble the horse's canter. Tavington had left her with only an idea of the path that he had taken through the forest, so when she was five minutes or so into her "ride", Annabelle surrendered herself to complete improvisation.

Anyone else would have seen a silly nineteen-year-old girl in a housecoat parading up and down the forest's various deer trails; but in her mind, she truly was Colonel Tavington in that moment. She pulled her shoulders back, mimicking his pristine posture to a tee. She even mimicked his many facial expressions. Her fun didn't stop until a rock caught her pinky toe. But after letting out a brief, "Must have thrown a shoe! Carry on!" in the most over-the-top English accent that she could muster, Annabelle proceeded to "ride" into the night.

Of course, she got lost. She knew that she would going in and as a matter of fact, when the game grew old, she still wasn't the least bit deterred by this discovery. Annabelle didn't care if she ever returned to her town and the town itself, in all actuality, would scarcely notice that she was gone.

Her feet finally grew weary of the trek just before daybreak and, as if by fate, Annabelle managed to stumble upon the perfect place to rest up and watch the sunrise. Since the war began, a number of rural homes had been abandoned. Many of their owners lived alone and did not survive in combat. She didn't know this at the time, but the hermit who used to live there was a young man who ran away from home when he was very young. A crossing with a bear was ultimately the end of him, but his fate had gone unnoticed by the rest of the world.

The structure that Annabelle found could scarcely constitute for a house or even a cabin, for that matter. It was more of a large shed that had been fashioned into a home at one point. But, oh! The location made its quaintness worthwhile! It was situated between two jagged hilltops and alongside a sparkling stream. A small vegetable garden that hadn't been tended to for the better part of the year flanked the tiny house.

"I shall make it my own. If only for a little while. And return only when _I_ decide to." Annabelle thought to herself as she stepped inside. There was a cot, a desk with the means to write with and a pile of abandoned clothes. None of the articles of clothing were intended for a young lady, but they were roughly her size and would provide her with warmth when the colder months approached.

As the golden light of morning crept through the door, her only means for a window, Annabelle sat down at the desk. After just one night in the forest, she felt again the familiar urge to write. She removed the notebook from her pocket and penned its very first poem alongside Tavington's drawing of the seven fireflies in their crystal palace:

 _A hummingbird perched all alone in a tree_

 _Tired and weary of buzzing around._

 _When all of a sudden, she happened to see_

 _A watchful red fox on the ground._

 _She spoke not a word, knowing foxes to be_

 _Full of tricks and deception and lies._

 _So, she continued humming her soft melody_

 _As he looked on with hungry green eyes._

 _"How lovely you hum," said the fox with a grin_

 _"It's been quite some time since I've heard…_

 _Oh! And long have I wished to hear once again_

 _The sweet song of a hummingbird."_

 _"You flatter me fox," said she between beats,_

 _"But flattery won't get you far,_

 _For I know that while many poisons smell sweet,_

 _Once discovered for what they are…_

 _Those poisoned shall regret with their final breath_

 _And I've heard it said that regret_

 _Is a greater tragedy, tenfold! Than death…_

Annabelle looked up from her work, momentarily stumped. She recalled the freedom that she'd felt that night in the forest when she'd forgotten about everything for a while. Even those green eyes that had watched her on her perch.

 _"… but you haven't poisoned me yet!"_ She concluded with a feverish scribble to the page. Then, she looked over her poem, shrugged slightly and began to gather the clothes on the floor and a bar of soap to wash them in the stream with.

She was more productive in one day's time than she had ever been at home. True, she did not know when the owner would return or if he ever would- but the idea of being impulsive and in an environment where impulsiveness was acceptable was truly intoxicating.

After a week, Annabelle had groomed the vegetable garden to perfection. There was even a space beside the cot where the previous owner had stored ammunition. She intended on learning to shoot eventually but didn't want to cause a stir. Plus, she believed herself to be a lucky shot since bringing that poor, unsuspecting apple down with her musket in the schoolyard.

Eventually, she began to lose track of the days. She tended her garden and it repaid her graciously with a variety of squash, beans, and tomatoes. Even the stream itself offered Annabelle several species of fish that were just large enough to fry up in the garden-side fire pit.

When the days started to grow shorter and colder, Annabelle found the garden and stream to be less generous with their offerings. She blanketed the garden to the best of her ability and took to learning how to set traps and fire ammunition at larger game. One day, as she had feared she might be, fate pushed Annabelle to have her first encounter with another person in months:

She'd been on the hunt for the better part of the day, tracking a feral pig into the furthest reach of the forest. He knew that he was being watched and managed to throw Annabelle off of her usual hunting path, but he was the perfect size- just big enough to keep her fed for a week and just small enough for her lanky arms to carry back to her humble little home. She followed in complete silence for ten minutes or so and when the little brown pig began to show complacency, she crouched and fired, bringing down in one hit.

"You're an excellent marksman." A friendly voice chimed from the trail behind Annabelle.

When she turned, she saw a young, golden haired man standing with his arms crossed. She backed away slightly and went back to her business as though she'd never acknowledged his presence in the first place. To her annoyance, the young man followed her as she went to collect the pig.

"I'm sorry to intrude on you, sir," he continued, "but if I might have a moment of your time… you… you don't speak, do you?"

She threw her kill over her shoulder, contemplating what to say to the persistent stranger. She wasn't exactly offended. While bundled up in men's clothing, with her long braid tucked high in beneath her patchy tri-cornered hat and her face smudged with mud, she probably did look very much like a boy. Not to mention, gunning down feral pigs amid winter's first frost was not exactly a ladylike thing to do.

"That's alright," his kind brown eyes shifted from the pig over her shoulder to Annabelle's face, "you don't have to speak. My name is Gabriel Martin, I am recruiting for a militia, and I think that you would be the perfect addition to our cause."


	7. Chapter 7

Benjamin Martin watched from over the brim of his glasses as Annabelle hesitated to sign her name.

"Hurry up, Son." He said with a sigh. "Uncertainty will only get you shot where you're headed."

The feather pen shook in her hand. What was she doing? Not even a year ago, she believed that her life's greatest adventure would be temporarily teaching at her father's schoolhouse. And now, under an influence of nothing more than the temptation of adventure and retribution, she was about to seal her fate with the stoke of a pen.

She cleared her throat and looked across the table at him, a man who she would soon learn to have suffered losses so similar to hers, and longed to exchange some sort of information. He began to tap the edge of the book with his fingers in impatience.

"Do you have anyone who has died in the war?" Benjamin asked, intuitively- as if by request. While Annabelle was stunned and relieved by his question, she limited herself to a simple nod and nothing more. "Then do it for them, Boy. Or get out of this tavern."

She took a breath, reminding herself of everything that she ran away from. The Whitleys, the Abbotts, her sisters and the complicated love that she harbored for that butcher. The pen grew steady, the ink slipped out in a fluid line as she gave birth and name to her new identity: _Will Arden_.

"Mr. Arden, then. I take it you've gathered everything from home, yes? Get yourself a room upstairs for the night." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of coins. "You will be compensated for your enlistment, of course. I suggest using it to find yourself a horse and to stock up on ammunition. We leave at first light."

Her thoughts heading into town with Gabriel were so different from how she felt when she left the tavern. At first, she felt so much excitement from merely being asked to participate in something communal. She was starved for inclusion in the village and had never been complimented on anything quite so well as the way that she killed the pig in the woods. Now, she strongly considered taking off down that misty path at the entrance town, running to her quiet home in the forest and never returning. But what adventure would there be in that?

Finding a horse and ammunition was easy and it only helped matters that she'd run into Gabriel shortly after leaving the tavern. He showed her exactly where to go for resources and even introduced her to some of his men.

"I don't know, Gabriel. He looks like a pansy to me." Annabelle heard one say as she stepped into the armory.

She didn't mind this much, if there was anything that Annabelle had grown used to over the years, it was being mocked. Whether it was within or out of earshot stopped mattering to her long ago. Instead, she busied herself with learning to communicate without words. After trying and failing a few times, she learned that jingling the bag of coins was message enough to the shop-keeps that she meant business.

After a fitful night of sleep in the loft above the tavern alongside the other soldiers, she reported for duty with everything that she needed, including a handsome black quarter horse who Annabelle quickly learned to be just as easily distracted and stubborn as she.

The first day passed in a blur, filled with more travel than combat. She began to dread more than anything her first encounter with the redcoats. Periodically, the men would stop to train their new recruits. While her shooting was clean and accurate for the most part, it did take Annabelle a while to get used to reloading under pressure. Gabriel realized that she was having trouble almost right away and offered his assistance.

"Remember, Mr. Arden," Gabriel said- only when he was confident that Annabelle was becoming proficient in her technique, "we will try our best to cover for you if you panic or lose focus, but only for so long. Practice like hell every chance you get. Like your life depends on it, because it does."

When the men made camp at what appeared to be an old Spanish mission, Annabelle secluded herself at the edge of the murky water while the other men ate and conversed. It was not until everyone was tucked soundly around the low-burning fire that she briefly washed in a space out of sight, changed, and prepared to do her laundry. She'd packed only the essentials and two changes of clothes. The notebook and a wooden stub of a pencil had made its way into her load as well, but they remained at the bottom of her saddlebag.

She dunked her soiled clothing in the water and scrubbed them with force. When she was satisfied, she wrung them out and hung them from the branches of a nearby tree. Her coat had lost a button during the long day's ride and it needed replacing. Annabelle threaded her needle and prepared to sew, but grew uncomfortable when she felt someone watching her. She expected it to be Gabriel. He'd monitored her rather closely that first day. It would turn out that this was simply out of fear that his new recruit wasn't all that he'd hoped him to be. Deep down, she feared that he suspected her to be a fraud. And she was right to do so. But it was, instead Benjamin who was watching.

"Don't let the other men see you doing that." As he approached her, Annabelle shrugged in question. "You'll be doing laundry and mending garments for the entire militia!" When she didn't laugh, he changed the subject slightly. "You know, I can't help but notice that you are a solitary man." Benjamin looked down at Annabelle's fingers as they navigated the needle and thread. She moved the fabric over them slightly, bracing herself for a comment on the feminine build of her ungloved hands. "Being in a group like this requires a certain trust. Since you cannot speak, your actions will be your words." Annabelle cocked her head slightly, confused and a bit afraid by this confrontation. "What I'm getting at is this- I will be watching you and Gabriel will be watching you until you give us reason to either trust you or not trust you."

"Well, that's just great." Was all that she could think as she adjusted her hat over the top the wet braid that she'd tucked away after bathing. This was only going to work so long as she kept her hair up, face dirty, and tongue held. As you can imagine, this was by far the longest that Annabelle had ever gone without talking. How could she live without words?

Benjamin's gaze and tone then softened a fraction. "Gabriel tells me you live alone. You're about his age." He paused, watching the side of Annabelle's face as he spoke. She did, indeed, look different without the usual mess of dirt on her face. Her profile was smooth and petite, her tiny nose turned only slightly at the end. If she was a boy, she was a very young boy. The only thing that gave her away as being at least seventeen was her height. "Perhaps younger. I take it you lost everyone, then?"

She turned, her light eyes full of fire. "How dare you ask me this?" She thought. "You hardly know me!"

"I'm sorry. I won't speculate. When you're a father, concern comes naturally."

Annabelle nodded, turning her head away for a second time.

"I lost a son." Benjamin continued what was beginning to seem like a conversation with himself. Although she remained turned, he sensed a change in Annabelle after saying this. "One of those Green Dragoons shot him in the back in front of my other children."

She turned to look at him again and gave the best "tell me more" gesture that she could come up with.

"Until he is stopped, Colonel Tavington will continue to cut our innocent loved ones down like wheat…" he could see a tear appear in the corner of Annabelle's eye, "I thought that name would mean something to you. Finding common ground, that is loyalty's secret ingredient. Don't worry, Boy. Before long, we shall rid ourselves of that parasite and win our liberty with honor…"


	8. Chapter 8

For weeks, Annabelle remained under the steady surveillance of her new commanders. Firing at a close range terrified her and it showed in her face every time she was ordered to participate in an ambush. Benjamin, with some persuasion from his son, quickly decided that her lightness of stride and stealth with a rifle while hunting made her a better fit for attacking from afar. The harsh truth was that she couldn't bear looking the redcoats in the eye when she fired at them. Therefore, the role of a hunter, pursuing a target from afar was more her style and Benjamin Martin jumped on the opportunity to teach her everything that he knew.

"Some of our men are down below as well." He told her as they watched the orderly red line of soldiers marching through a far off cottonfield. "So- aim small, miss small. That's what I always tell my boys."

She nodded as they crouched low behind a rocky ledge. The first few men that she shot at before being reassigned had not been mortally wounded. In other words, she still had yet to kill another human being. Carrying out this act from a distance did not exactly alleviate the gravity of the moment. She cocked the weapon and took her aim, imagining her target to be nothing more than the green apple she'd shot in the schoolyard.

"Now, Arden. Now!"

His voice had no more effect on her than the breeze on her face. The gun fired. As the bullet journeyed to its mark, the world seemed to stand still. The man below was not an apple or a mark on the training course. He was flesh and blood, just like her sisters had been. She knew no more about him than she knew of Tavington. Hell, they could have been the best of friends or even brothers for all she knew. Her heart sunk low as he fell to the ground with Annabelle's metal bullet in his breast.

"You're a natural." He handed her a newly loaded rifle. "I'll take the back, you take the front."

One by one, they fell and the rest of the militia disappeared into the forest without a trace.

The encouragement was intoxicating. Annabelle was both surprised and disappointed in herself to learn just how heavily the opinion of another person could weigh on her. In a short period of time, she grew more and more eager to impress Benjamin and Gabriel. The act of shooting and killing gave her a strange feeling of empowerment while victory gave her a sense of validation. Thus, she stumbled upon another insight into the character of Colonel Tavington.

Despite her newfound interest in shooting, Annabelle found herself anticipating the day's ride more than anything else. She would spend only enough time at the old Spanish mission to sleep, eat her small ration of food, bathe and complete her laundry but only as privacy allowed. The rest of her time was spent with her little black spitfire of a horse who she addressed, fittingly so, as "Rascal".

Although she was beginning to find her place amongst the men, Rascal made it difficult to ride anywhere with Annabelle. He made a game out of everything and was almost entirely unresponsive to any of the nonverbal commands that Annabelle was limited to. Rascal simply wouldn't settle for being second or third in any line; he either had to lead or walk alone. If at any time, he noticed another horse's rump in his face, he would bite down hard, sending the poor rider flying through the air and into the nearby brush. This gained a few laughs at first but it quickly became a concern, as you can imagine.

Rascal wasn't a completely rotten apple. Annabelle had never seen a better sprinter; even after all the years that she'd spent on the Whitley's horse farm. She was confident that the two of them would give any of the Green Dragoons a run for the money. When the day came to test that theory, however, things panned out a little bit differently…

It was just another ambush. Annabelle watched from afar, waiting for her signal to fire. She was out of the way, hiding behind a craggy ledge with two other mounted soldiers. Benjamin spoke his part to the line of redcoats and, as was usually the case, they refused to stand down and the firing began. She was so engrossed in the technicalities of "fire, aim, reload, repeat" that she didn't hear of the incoming danger until the last possible second.

"Arden," said the man to her left, "we have to get out of here!" When she didn't heed, he tried again. "Dammit, are you deaf, too?"

She completed her shot and looked up just long enough to see that a new energy had taken over all parties.

"We'll head for the bridge Arden, you're welcome to join us."

Annabelle stayed her ground and continued to fire with nobody watching her back. It was challenging to make her mark with all of the commotion, but she did not feel ready to retreat. Then, the earth itself seemed to shake. The thunderous sound of a hundred hooves clashing and clattering against the ground filled her ears. The Green Dragoons had arrived to counter their attack.

They moved into the forest like a mighty, red wave and crashed into the combat zone. Annabelle reached into her saddlebag for more ammunition, her location had not yet been compromised and she could still fire there for a while longer. Her hand continued to search for the ammunition, but all that she could feel was the little leather-bound notebook that had gone untouched for months. She moved the pages around with her fingertips. It felt as though the remainder of the little metal bullets had embedded themselves in the binding.

"No…" She held her breath. The Dragoons dispersed throughout the forest. A handful were riding her way. She could see the bridge that her partners escaped to earlier in the corner of her eye, but she didn't want to endanger them. She abandoned her hunt for ammunition and snapped the reins, tearing out in front of the line of Dragoons. Rascal moved with just enough speed to push her far ahead of them. They fired as they rode, sending their shots whirring dangerously close to the corners of her face. She headed for a clearing in the forest and made way for the field that rested on the other side.

"We surrender!" Came several voices from the field.

As Annabelle moved into the open, she saw a cluster of her own men, surrounded by the mounted redcoats. As they turned to see who was behind them, she extended her firearm and dropped it in the tall grass. Her hands quivered as they rose in the air. After receiving a tiny nod, she coaxed Rascal into the circle.

"You understand the rules of surrender, yes?" Asked a young redcoat, his forehead creasing slightly from underneath his powdered wig and cap.

"Will Arden is a mute." Explained Reverend Oliver, one of the captured men.

Annabelle shook her head; her face was washed with terror. She had no idea what was about to happen. The redcoats worked quickly, relieving their new prisoners of any arms or ammunition that they carried, binding their hands behind their backs and searching their saddlebags and bodies for anything that could be used as a weapon. Annabelle held her breath as the same young soldier who had questioned her before shook the bullets out from within the pages of Tavington's notebook. He looked up and saw that her eyes were locked on the notebook and her face was as white as a sheet. He dropped his eyes to the notebook where Tavington's coat of arms was in plain sight…

Author's Note: I apologize for the small lag in my updates. This chapter was meant to be longer to compensate, but I try to end my chapters with a cliffhanger and this stopping place made the most sense to me. You can expect the next chapter tomorrow and as always, thank you for showing interest in my work!


	9. Chapter 9

The young British soldier ran his finger over the coat of arms in contemplation. His light eyes bounced back up to Annabelle who hadn't taken a proper breath of air in nearly a minute.

"Turnbull?" He asked, still watching her closely. "Will you fetch Tavington for me?"

A portly soldier who Annabelle assumed to be Turnbull rode towards them.

"You cannot merely fetch Tavington," he said, "besides, he's still off hunting his ghost."

Several laughs shot back and forth throughout the encirclement of Green Dragoons.

"Why, did you find anything suspicious on one of our prisoners?" Turnbull asked, looking Annabelle over from behind a thin pair of spectacles.

"Rather."

The tiny notebook was then passed to Turnbull and the remnants of ammunition rolled out and tumbled to the ground.

"What exactly am I looking at here, Phipps?" He flipped through the pages, passively. "There's nothing more than a few crudely drawn landscapes and mediocre poems in this book…"

Phipps shook his head. "It's property of the Colonel. Turn it over if you don't believe me."

After investigating what was on the back, Turnbull gave his men a tiny nod and tucked the notebook into the innermost pocket of his coat. "Assuming we are situated," he began, turning his horse, "which we appear to be, let us head back to the fort and give these men the swift hanging they've earned."

Annabelle watched the wooded outskirts of the road. Tavington was due to appear with the rest of his men at any moment. Her mind began to race. In the terrible anticipation of her impending execution, she began to believe that the only thing that could spare her and, if she was lucky, her men, now would be words. She could talk herself into trouble, sure, but she'd talked herself out of trouble on numerous occasions as well. If the notebook was of no significance to Tavington, she would have only this tactic to rely upon.

Something began to stir several yards back and sure enough, it was Tavington and several others. As he approached, Annabelle could see a shadow of frustration and defeat had darkened his handsome features- his "Ghost" had slipped away from his clutches. He didn't speak a word to any of the other men although Turnbull and Phipps looked, on several occasions, as though they were about to engage him. Instead, he seemed to make his own path quite like Annabelle used to do. Her mind mused upon this parallel for the remainder of their ride.

When they arrived at the fort, the prisoners were ushered into a barred holding space in the yard. Annabelle was barely given a moment to bid adieu to poor little Rascal whose behavior with the other horses had been exemplary. She didn't know this, but Colonel Tavington witnessed the brief kiss that she had given Rascal on his fuzzy black nose and had chuckled slightly from his place across the yard. No more than five minutes after seeing this, he was approached by both Turnbull and Phipps.

Annabelle was leaning against the bars in the section of the crowded prison that she had proclaimed her own when she was summoned. It was not Tavington who called upon her, but a young woman who she assumed to work as a servant in the house. The woman slipped a sealed note to the gatekeeper.

After breaking the seal and taking a glance inside, the old guard spoke, "Will Arden." He looked through the bars at Annabelle before turning his eyes to the young woman. "Very well. Take the runt to his slaughter." Not a moment later, she was handed over to meet her unknown fate. She remained in her shackles and the large wooden gates at the mouth of the fort were shut, so Annabelle assumed that nobody expected foul play as she crossed the guard with her unusual escort.

They climbed the steps and entered. Despite the fort's rugged exterior, the inside was pristine with fine furnishings and wide windows overlooking the area's natural beauty. She led Annabelle into a small parlor with several armchairs and a fireplace and gestured for her to sit in the chair nearest to the window. Moments later, the sound of footfalls echoed in the hallway and Tavington's shadow filled the doorway.

"That will be all for now, Phoebe." He told the young woman upon entering the room. "Bring me the items we've discussed while I make our guest more comfortable."

One curtsy later, Phoebe left, leaving Annabelle and Tavington alone in the parlor. He watched her closely before speaking, his light eyes appeared to be alive with some emotion, but as always, it was almost impossible to decipher.

"Will Arden?" He asked, sitting in the chair adjacent to Annabelle. His thin lips moved into a partial grin. "And I half expected you'd choose something more along the lines of 'Ganymede*'."

Before Annabelle could speak, Phoebe entered and gave Tavington yet another uncomfortable curtsy. She appeared to have retrieved several garments of women's clothing. "You must think that I am terribly rude to not introduce you to my friend." Tavington continued, reclining slightly, "Phoebe, this is Annabelle Casey. And like you when you came to us, Annabelle's brain is teeming with information about the enemy. Why, it's a practical goldmine at that! And like you, we are about to offer her an appealing deal in exchange for that information."

Phoebe tensed. It was evident that Tavington terrified her. Even more so was the fact that Tavington enjoyed imposing terror on her. Annabelle decided to speak, for the first time in what seemed like years, if only to alleviate the poor woman's pain.

"You are offering me service in exchange for information?" She asked, moving very near to the edge of the armchair.

"Not exactly. But what I am offering you is a far better fate than the noose." Tavington examined his nails. "A clean cut in comparison to what the Continental Army will do to you once they learn your true identity, that's for certain."

Annabelle looked to Phoebe who handed her the stack of women's garments and, upon receiving a nod from Tavington, escaped through the doorway and down the hall.

"And what if I refuse?"

He reached for the pistol at his side and aimed it at her head. "Phoebe is a stupid girl, but she's smart enough to honor my requests. As far as everyone else out there is concerned, you are a mute pickpocket who goes by the name of Will Arden and it would cause us all very little grief if I were to spill the contents of your pretty head all over the window behind you."

Her eyes narrowed. "A pickpocket?"

Tavington holstered the pistol and pulled out the familiar leather notebook. "I must admit, I'm rather disappointed in you. Foxes and hummingbirds. That's nearly as trite fireflies."

She looked at the reflection of Tavington's shiny black boots on the polished wooden floor. Perhaps she truly was nothing more than an object of ridicule to him. "What kind of information are you seeking, Colonel Tavington?"

The footsteps of passing soldiers were heard from down the hall. Tavington rose and headed to the doorway, peeking out of it briefly. "Before proceeding, I think it would be wise for you to change into those garments. Don't worry, I'll leave you to your privacy. Oh, and don't even dream of escaping. I will have you shot. Do you understand?"

Annabelle moved her fingertips across the fabric, confused. "Tell me more about Phoebe." When he refused, she tried again. "Or at least... tell me why you are doing this for me."

"You help me, I help you. Dress. Give the door a little knock when you are done, I'll be just outside."

When the door was closed, Annabelle moved to the only place in the small parlor that could not be seen from outside and removed her boy's clothing. The gown was much too large and could scarcely be held in place by her narrow little shoulders. She unpinned her braid from the top of her head and unraveled her messy cornsilk waves. They were just long enough to protect her modesty from the gown's loose fit.

When she felt ready, she moved to the door and rapped on it carefully. The handle twisted and he moved back into the space. He looked her over briefly before crossing to the same chair that he claimed earlier, his face bore little emotion.

"You look ridiculous." He said, finally. "Sit."

Annabelle followed his command, feeling the edge of the gown's neckline slipping dangerously close to the top of her breasts. She quickly adjusted her hair for coverage before clasping her hands in her lap. She truly did look ridiculous with her dirt-smudged face and long tresses of hair that were practically fashioned into a shawl at this point. But as Tavington sat, contemplating the order of his questions, he found himself overwhelmed by the quiet and childlike beauty of the wayward girl in the chair across from him. Not to mention, impressed by how she was able to pull of her disguise and silence her beloved words for so long. He had taken away so much from her and longed to give something back.

In the silence before his first question, Tavington decided that once the "interrogation" was over, he would prepare a carriage for Annabelle. He would have her taken to Charlestown where a ship would carry her far away from this war-torn land; to a place where she might continue to grow wild and free the way that nature had intended. And perhaps- most importantly of all, to a place where she would never have to suffer the terrible wrath of the monster that lived inside of him again.

*Shameless "As You Like It" reference. Go Shakespeare.


	10. Chapter 10

Colonel Tavington massaged his temples in frustration. It was becoming more and more evident by the minute that Annabelle was going to be of little help to him. He'd played all the angles, it seemed. He'd asked every question that he planned on asking- and more. When asked about the "Ghost's" identity, Annabelle drew a blank. After nearly a half an hour, the only information Tavington had compiled was that she joined the Militia under a false identity to avenge her sisters, kept to herself and made little to no connections. She was on cordial terms at best with her commanders and there were very few exchanges due to the ruse to keep her voice masked.

"People will die during my hunt for answers, Annabelle." Tavington said, nearly begging. "Do you truly want their blood on your hands?"

Annabelle fiddled with the lengthy sleeves of that disaster of a gown she'd been condemned to wear. "This dress isn't going to work." As she threw her hands down, the edges of the sleeves puffed out, comically.

"Are you not hearing me properly? There are larger issues to be dealt with here than… ruffles." He pressed his hand to his forehead once more. "Perhaps you truly are just a silly girl…"

"What I mean to say is, disguising a girl who is disguised as a boy as a girl," she paused, drawing the words she'd just spoken in mid-air with her fingertip, "yes. Is simply not going to work. That is why I want you to lock me up with the rest of my men so that my sentence might be carried out."

"I don't understand. I am offering to save your life. Now you want to martyr yourself for that sorry lot of convicts?"

She shrugged, turning around backwards on the armchair and glancing out the window. Tavington watched the light from outside reflecting against the various shades of gold in her billowing hair. "Last time I checked," Annabelle said with her back to him, "I was a convict, too. Conduct the rest of your interrogations. If you don't find the information that you seek," she turned to look him in the eyes, "well… there wasn't much hope for us in the first place. Your men have made that perfectly clear with those mock trials they've been holding all morning with bags of flour." He looked confused. "Oh, I know a scare tactic when I see one, Colonel. Now, allow me to change, put my irons back on and lock me up."

The usual coldness in his expression was changing more and more by the minute. There was a new warmness in those pale eyes that Annabelle hadn't seen before.

"If that is what you wish." He reached for the notebook that had been perched on the arm of his chair for the duration of their conversation. "I'll speak to the guards and let them know that I let you keep this. In exchange for my kindness or rather, attempt at kindness-"

"Your kindness?" Annabelle interrupted, "You ordered to have the only family I've ever known killed! If there is even a hint of kindness in you, Colonel-"

"In exchange for my kindness which you have so stupidly rejected," he continued, gesturing for Annabelle to lower her voice, "I have but one request."

She swept her tattered clothes off of the floor and headed for the doorway, where she waited for him to rise, leave and allow her to change. "Is that so?! And what does the noble Colonel Tavington request of me?"

He followed, like a cat in pursuit of a bird. When he reached her, he slipped the notebook into her hands.

"A poem." He said. "One final poem for me to have in my little book of strange and beautiful things."

She accepted the notebook, holding his gaze. "The subject?"

"No fireflies, no hummingbird or foxes." Tavington reached out and touched a single unruly strand of her hair. "But a poem about a man and a beautiful heroine with a fate akin to that of Dionysus and his Ariadne*. Include in your poem that she has eyes that even the purest emeralds covet and hair that holds within it all the colors of Saturn's rings."

Annabelle managed to force a laugh, "Dionysus, the god? And his mortal wife, Ariadne? Isn't that a bit cocky?"

"You are the one responsible for your own fate, Miss Casey. Now, I'm going to shut this door so you can put on your trousers and die like a man… or however the saying goes."

Annabelle stood in thought after the door to the parlor was closed. His offer was appealing. She imagined the carriage ride to Charleston, boarding a ship and beginning her new life in the Caribbean. But even though Will Arden was nothing more than a character of her own design, their fates were conjoined and she'd been running away from her problems for far too long. She dressed herself quickly, tucked his notebook away and gave the door yet, another tiny knock.

"I'm sorry that your plan didn't come to its fruition. But I will have you know that I am no coward." She said with her hands on her hips.

Then, Tavington did something that Annabelle had not anticipated, he shut the door and approached her, appearing to be unaffected by her little "speech".

"You're forgetting something." He moved behind Annabelle and much to her surprise, collected her hair in his hands and began to braid it for her.

She closed her eyes, feeling every gentle tug that his large hands made against her scalp. The warmth of his breath hit the back of her neck, sending a visible shiver across her shoulders and down her spine. They were barely touching and still, it was the most intimate moment that Annabelle ever shared with anyone.

"Have you ever been to a hanging, Annabelle?" Tavington asked as he tied off his work with the same tattered, off-white ribbon Annabelle always wore. Her eyes remained shut, but she shook her head in response. "Usually it's a clean sweep. But occasionally, the neck doesn't break and the convicted is left to strangle to death mid-air."

"There is some poetry in even that fate, don't you think?" She tried to turn, but Tavington stopped her.

He reached his hand into her coat pocket and began to write, using her back as a surface.

"What are you doing?" She could hear the scratch of the pencil against the pages as he wrote a brief passage before returning the items to her pocket.

"Some words for you to reflect upon as you walk to the gallows. It is my hope that you will find some comfort in them." He tucked her braid beneath her hat and allowed her to turn. "Now, would you do me the pleasure of letting me hear the last of yours?"

The coldness was returning to his eyes, but Annabelle was lucky enough to catch a witness what she believed to be a slowly-dying ember of kindness behind them. "I might have chosen mine today, but it is not too late for you to change your own fate, Colonel Tavington."

He stepped towards the door, pausing slightly before he touched the handle. "William. You may call me William."

Annabelle pushed him aside and made to open the door herself. She twisted the handle, but did not open it just yet. The intense connection between their eyes seemed to hold them both captive for a moment as they shared her "final" word: "William."

*Confused? Give the song "Ariadne" from Sondheim's "The Frogs" a quick listen. Or even if you're not confused, it's still just a great effing musical. Okay, I'm done. Lisa out.


	11. Chapter 11

The guards certainly were puzzled to see Tavington return Will Arden unharmed. There had been whispers here and there throughout the yard that he awaited a fate worse than death for stealing from the vengeful Colonel. So, you can imagine everyone's surprise when they learned that Tavington permitted Mr. Arden to keep the notebook on his person in the cell.

"I am giving Mr. Arden the opportunity to write any information that he might be withholding from us," he explained to one of the guards, "should he comply, he might gain back his freedom. If not, I'd like the item returned to me after his execution. The choice is his."

After giving Annabelle one last glance from the other side of the wooden bars, Tavington headed for the stables and could be seen riding off shortly after.

"What's in that thing, Arden?" Asked the always gruff John Billings as he stabbed the outside of the notebook with his finger.

Annabelle opened to a section of the book she was certain would be blank and lifted it high for all to see. Nothing. Shortly after, their curiosity died down. She thought about hunting through the pages to uncover whatever it was that Tavington wrote, but decided against it. Having something to look forward to tends to bring a sense of levity to the spirits when one is cooped up, after all. Instead, she focused her energy on composing his poem. She remembered the Shakespeare reference he'd made earlier and decided to work in iambic pentameter. This kept her occupied for the better half of the day.

She didn't look up from her work until John Billings and Reverend Oliver initiated a group prayer. They were nearly successful in pulling Annabelle's hat off of her head, when Benjamin Martin himself arrived at the gate with two large Great Danes to negotiate their freedom with Lord Cornwallis.

The tension amongst the men was heavy. Not a word was spoken until he was spotted exiting the building. The order was given and the prisoners were granted their freedom once again. Annabelle was the last to leave. But when everyone else was reuniting with their valiant savior, she saw to it that she was the first to the stables where, to her relief, she was permitted to have Rascal back. She was not entirely antisocial and even flashed Benjamin Martin a thousand-watt smile as she came forward to mingle with the rest of her companions.

"A boy and his horse, I guess." Benjamin chimed as Gabriel laughed in agreement.

It was around this time that the gates were opened, allowing passage for the last person Annabelle wanted to see. Tavington looked right past her, staring daggers at Benjamin as he dismounted. He strode across the lawn and confronted O'Hara. Annabelle and the others were ushered out through the gates and they stared in disbelief as Tavington revealed just what he had done to Benjamin Martin's poor son. Annabelle knew that he had killed him, but hearing it from his own mouth and with such a lack of empathy was horrific.

The two men shared a final, hostile exchange of words and Tavington's eyes moved to Annabelle. This was the first time she'd ever seen him look defeated.

"We're not done here quite yet." Tavington hissed before they parted ways. "I will be keeping the girl."

Annabelle felt as though the ground had been swept out from underneath her. He had, in a state of weakness, reached out and pulled her into the waves to suffer, to drown alongside him. There was nothing she could do in that moment to save her from this terrible, sinking feeling- except, perhaps to speak.

"You hold no claim on me, Colonel Tavington. I have been freed with the rest of these men." Annabelle declared with volume. She urged Rascal forward to where Benjamin Martin stood looking both stunned and disappointed all at once. "I am sorry that I deceived you."

"Deceived me?" He nearly lost his footing in the process, but managed to pull Annabelle from Rascal's back in one clean sweep. "Me?! Do you even realize the severity of what you have done!?"

She looked up at him from her place on the ground. "Of course I do, Sir. And I guarantee you that I will take full responsibility for my actions. But don't you remember why I joined your cause in the first place?"

This didn't seem to help her case. "You haven't only deceived us- you have made a mockery of me, of these men, of the entire nation!" He exclaimed, kicking a puff of dirt in her face as he removed his pistol and took aim.

"I suppose you're just too proud to admit that your best marksman is a woman." Annabelle managed to produce a tiny smirk. If anything, her comment had stayed his hand for a moment longer. But the truth was, Benjamin had seen too many similarities between Will Arden and his boys and even now, he witnessed channels being crossed between Annabelle and his daughters. She was clever, headstrong, full of wit and curiosity… and did not deserve to die.

"You were a fair marksman at best. I am sorry that you lost your loved ones and I hope that you find the closure that you are looking for. But there is no place for you in my Militia." He offered his hand and pulled Annabelle up from the ground before turning his eyes to Tavington. "This woman is a citizen of the American Colonies. She is therefore under our protection. Should you inflict any harm on her, my men will be forced to open fire." His voice then lowered to a whisper. "Get back on your horse and ride as far away from here as you can."

She could not stay. Now that Tavington had uncovered the identity of his "Ghost", she would be bled dry for answers. Her little home in the woods was no more than a day's ride away and although she knew that it would do her good to return to her hometown, too much time had passed and she feared more than anything having to explain her disappearance to anyone.

Above all, Annabelle hadn't spoken to her father in nearly a year and there was a very real possibility that he had been killed in battle. To return home, to stand in the same place where she had seen her loved ones murdered in cold blood, and then to learn that the war claimed the last of her family, would destroy her. So, she fell back into her usual pattern of running away from her problems and living in denial.

It was for this exact same reason that Annabelle refused to investigate the passage that Tavington wrote in the notebook. She managed to convince herself that it was exactly what she'd hoped it to be: an apology. That combined with the expression on his face as the shots that killed her sisters sounded through the air was enough to aid her in the ongoing process of forgiving him. A simple recollection of the words that she'd heard him say earlier about Benjamin Martin's son, however, slowed this process down significantly.

They gave her enough time to vanish out of sight and Annabelle remained clear of the highways all day, staying true to the narrow veins of deer trails that stretched throughout the forest. This slowed her journey to a crawl, but ensured a safe crossing to her lovely little home that she missed dearly and thought of often. Her long day's ride came to its end when she heard the gentle sound of familiar waters lapping against even more familiar stones. At long last, she'd returned to what she believed in secret to be her own little country, tucked carefully aside from all of the rest of the world. Annabelle was home.

This sentiment was short lived. The voice of the stream was not entirely unaccompanied. As Annabelle coaxed Rascal to move closer, she could see the glow of a small fire in the pit beside her garden. Beside it, two or three Continental soldiers were crouched. "They must be using it for a campsite," she thought to herself. As she weighed her options, a middle-aged soldier with a receding line of golden curls and circular spectacles burst out of the front door with a book in his hand. He found a place beside the fire and began to read. Annabelle watched him closely, but she knew by his every movement, from every line on his fair face, the man who was seated only several yards away was her father.

Author's Note: Again, I just wanted to insert a quick thank you to those who have been reading this story. Going into the Stats page and seeing that people all over the world are looking at your work is nothing short of incredible. As you can probably tell, this story is nearing its end. There are roughly three more chapters to go. I will be setting aside a weekend in the near future to conduct a revision before the final chapter is posted. I will also be conducting a search for a beta very soon. If you have been following this story and are interested in assisting me with editing, I would be thrilled to work with you. New chapter tomorrow! Humbly, L.S.


	12. Chapter 12

Solomon Casey was a quiet man. Like Annabelle, he found solace in poetry and prose and was rarely seen without some sort of reading material in the crook of his arm. Once lost in a maze of words, it was almost impossible to pull him back into reality; but there was a strange and primitive force generated by the gaze of his only living daughter that compelled him to look up. He adjusted his glasses and squinted, unsure of what he had seen. Even if Annabelle wanted to leave, and part of her did, she couldn't possibly now that the connection was made.

"My child?" His voice was unsteady, quivering, even.

She dismounted, leaving Rascal to munch on the tender grasses that grew at the edge of the water.

"It can't be you." As he drew nearer, Annabelle could see an undeniable pain behind his eyes. "I thought you were dead." He looked at her attire- her three-pointed hat, the pistol on her back. Within a moment's time, he knew what this disguise meant. "You didn't."

"I did what I had to. For Scarlett and Delilah." She gestured for an embrace. Solomon was hesitant at first, but accepted it.

"It put me through hell, you know. To return home and find-" his thoughts were cut short by an inevitable sob. "I'm sorry."

"How long have you known?" Annabelle asked, holding him even closer than before.

"Reverend Chelsea wrote to me the week that you disappeared. He told me about how you tried to save the girls and our friends. And how you started to come unglued after the incident. As anyone would. We assumed that the guilt drove you away. When you didn't return, everyone began to fear for the worst… but none of us suspected vengeance… you must return home, Annabelle. We are here for another night, let me take you."

She glanced at the soldiers who were seated comfortably around the fire pit. She used to be like them. Sitting scared and alone, anticipating whatever combat and gore tomorrow might bring. Knowing that this moment may very well be the last that this exact group of men would assemble and sit, as themselves, for a while. What was more, Annabelle knew that this place used to be her own. While she was willing to hand it over to these men and not to mention, overjoyed to learn that her father was one of them, it hurt to know that it had taken on a new purpose.

"Remember when I told you," Solomon continued, "to not lose sight of yourself? Our town needs you. They need your joy, you humor, your light. Especially in a time like this. Many of the children have lost their fathers and brothers. Returning to them with your songs and poetry would be the greatest education that they could receive right now. You do still write poetry, don't you?" When she nodded, his face lit up. "Give me just one moment to inform my officers."

When he was given approval to leave, he and Annabelle rode into the forest. Although this reunion caused a great strain on their hearts, it didn't take long for the levity that they'd always gained in one another's company to be born again. Annabelle loved her father dearly. In all of her life, she'd never encountered another person who seemed to "speak her language", if that makes sense; and as Annabelle grew, Solomon had found great relief in the fact that he had someone to talk to about his interests as well. Throughout the years, the two of them tried to engage Scarlett and Delilah in recitations over the dinner table on almost a nightly basis. Often times, it ended up being the two of them providing entertainment for the two younger girls.

"Cold tonight." Solomon muttered as he rode a few paces ahead of Annabelle. "We're still awaiting Autumn's first frost. Wouldn't that be a lovely topic for a poem?"

Annabelle smiled. She knew that he was going to do this. "Father, haven't you ever considered other topics for poetry? You know, that aren't seasons or moonbeams?"

"Don't tell me you've been writing poetry about war? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you have been. Writing is, after all, an autobiographical artform."

She quickened Rascal's pace and turned him to ride alongside her father. "No. But I do have a project in the making. A sonnet."

He arched his eyebrow. "A sonnet, you say?" After taking a moment to think, and re-examine Annabelle's attire, he found himself forcing back a grin. "He's Militia, I assume?"

She stifled her smile and looked ahead, trying her best to remain discreet. "Cavalry."

"Annabelle Beatrice Casey!" He exclaimed, joyfully. "Name and rank? I probably know him." Annabelle remained silent, so he pried further. "And you had to leave before your true identity was compromised?"

She shrugged. The idea of lying to him plagued her conscious; but he, like her, created fabrications of the truth all the time in order to avoid pain. "Something along those lines, Father…"

"I will pray for his safety. And for your heart. I never thought I'd see my Annabelle composing sonnets for anyone!" Once again, his words were met with uncomfortable silence. "Could you at least tell me about him?"

"There really isn't much to tell, Father." The smile she'd been working to conceal reappeared as she thought of Tavington. "His name is William. He is very ambitious. But also very kind. And since I know you're curious, yes, he has referenced Shakespeare. And Aristophanes, too…"

"Splendid! The two of us will have something to talk about!"

Annabelle allowed this thought to consume her. She knew that this meeting would never come to pass, but she reveled in it all the same.

"So," Solomon continued, just as enamored by the notion of this meeting as she, "he is an equestrian. Just like Harold." He stopped, realizing what he'd just said, "I'm sorry. Losing him must have been unbearable and then your sisters. You are still very young and it kills me to think that you had to manage those losses on your own…"

Silence prevailed- a stark comparison to the joyful note that their conversation started on. Annabelle felt just as guilty knowing that her father had to endure not only the loss of Scarlett and Delilah- but her loss, as well.

"Will you recite it for me?" He asked, carefully breaking the silence between them. "The sonnet you've composed for William? I've missed my daughter's poetry."

"Well, I'm still not completely satisfied with it."

"And you never will be!" Solomon urged. "You know me, I've always given you the best notes! With me as your editor, you will have a perfect sonnet to gift him with by the time the war ends."

His optimism, as always, was infectious. The sonnet was in the notebook and she wanted to keep it hidden away for the time being, so she recited it as best she could from memory:

 _A man immortal! Never did she know_

 _That love could be a tyrant of the heart._

 _Tentative as the last of Springtime's snow,_

 _Her boundaries shattered and fell apart._

 _Temptation! What should it be like to fall_

 _From mighty cliffs to jagged rocks below?_

 _The joy is in the falling, after all_

 _The beauty lives in merely letting go._

 _So, as she fell, her eyes remained steadfast_

 _Upon the loft above her where he stood,_

 _And trusted he would break her fall at last_

 _Permitting her to join him there for good._

Solomon stared with concern at his daughter. "It sounds as though, and correct me if I'm wrong," he began, "but it sounds as though you are suggesting that love is comparable to suicide."

"Is it not? We shed our skin all the time. Before proceeding with any great change, a part of us must die."

"And also, you write about this man as though he is this immortal, celestial being. He should be the one jumping off of the cliff for you, my dear."

Annabelle chuckled, his reaction was almost exactly what she had expected. "Yes, Father."

"Those minor adjustments aside, you will have the makings for a fine sonnet!"

They rode into town together, past the small graveyard and up to the church's large, red door. Old Reverend Chelsea was Solomon's dearest friend in all the world. Annabelle was not surprised with his decision to leave her with him for the time being.

"Now, this will only be temporary," Solomon explained to his daughter before knocking, "this will also allow you to ease back into your role as a teacher since the town's children are currently being educated by the church."

As expected, she was welcomed by Reverend Chelsea with open arms. After bidding a difficult farewell to her father, Annabelle found a quiet pew in the empty church and prayed for his safety.

In the morning that followed, Annabelle was permitted by the reverend to go for a small walk to clear her mind before the children were due to arrive. She walked to the schoolhouse with Tavington's notebook stashed safely in her pocket and ascended the apple tree. The summertime fireflies that usually graced the vicinity had vanished, as Solomon had observed, in the wake of Autumn's first frost. She flipped through the pages, found her sonnet and began to brainstorm the adjustments.

Before she could take pencil to paper, however, an icy breeze caused the pages to flip at a rapid pace. As the breeze died down they landed, as if by chance, on the passage that Tavington had written for Annabelle. She read it over once, twice. Her heart felt as though it had been struck by a bolt of lightning. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. It was a line from one of Shakespeare's plays that she'd always found rather humorous; but now, it took on an entirely new meaning for Annabelle:

 _I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?_


	13. Chapter 13

Winter approached at an expedited pace. Silence covered the land. The cheerful duets of crickets and songbirds no longer graced the forest surrounding Annabelle's tiny town. But no matter how silent the outdoors had grown, the inside of the church had its own way of further stifling noise. Even when she lived alone, Annabelle never cared for silence. Especially, the deafening silence of domesticity. If she was to live in a house, or any structure for that matter, she wanted it to be filled with laughter, song and of course, the freedom and encouragement for recitations and conversation. Reverend Chelsea offered companionship, yes, but that seemed to be the extent of it.

She missed her father more and more with every passing day. He sent her a letter before the holiday season, asking her to forgive his absence. The second letter that Solomon sent in January, however, caused her greater pain.

Her lessons were moved to the schoolhouse again. She'd integrated her life into the community once more- or rather, as much as Annabelle and the townsfolk would allow. In the early evenings after her lectures were over, she would bundle up, collect her post and take Rascal out for a brief ride. The evening that she received this message was no exception. Except, of course, for the anticipation of reading her father's words once they reached the quiet hilltop where Annabelle had grown accustomed to reading both books and her post while Rascal nosed around for soft grasses amidst the frost.

She slid off of Rascal's back, plopped down on the driest patch of ground that she could find and tore into his letter:

 _My Dearest Daughter,_

 _In less than two week's time, I will be fighting in the front line of what has been deemed the war's most decisive battle. To say that this summon does not terrify me would be a lie. However, knowing that I have someone to write home to- especially someone as brave as you, has granted me a sense of courage that I have been so desperately needing; while the knowledge that I have your prayers grants me a divine and precious sense of comfort that I will carry with me onto the battlefield. Please know that I am still praying for you and your William. I am almost certain that he and I will be sharing the field. It is my fondest hope that the three of us will be together someday soon and that we will graced again with the gift of family that we have both been desperately lacking over the last year. Remain joyful. For your joy has always been my greatest treasure._

 _Your Father,_

 _Solomon Casey_

At this point in her life, Annabelle was becoming very skilled at listening for current events. Most of the news that she received about the war was by way of gossipers on the streets or in church. She knew about the impending battle. Since Solomon's letter needed time to be delivered and the words of the townsfolk didn't indicate otherwise, she knew that it hadn't happened yet.

Before leaving, she held the letter close to her heart and prayed silently for her father… and for her William. She thought of him often, yes, but at this point, William Tavington seemed like nothing more than a pleasant dream she'd dreamt long ago. The incredibly thin hope of a future with him had been tucked safely away. It was too fragile, too precious for her to take out and admire. Until she learned of his fate, she forced herself to remain indifferent to the matter, save for the conversations that she had about him with God.

She decided that a longer ride would help her to clear her mind this evening. So, after allowing Rascal and herself enough time to rest up and enjoy the view, the pair headed into the forest and followed the stream for a while. The cold air was clear and easy to breathe for the most part, but after heading half-a-mile downstream, Annabelle's nose filled with the familiar and unpleasant scent of a burning building. Since the season called for woodfires in almost every household, she assumed that one might have gone awry. No more than ten minutes later, her suspicions were confirmed: on the horizon, a large structure; possible a ranch house was all ablaze with amber flames; large billows of smoke poured into the sky.

They drew closer, ready to provide assistance to anyone who might have been affected by the fire, but the surrounding area was clear. Annabelle and Rascal continued their search. They headed across the plain and back into the forest a ways. It wasn't long before they heard voices coming from the stream.

Even from far away, she recognized William Tavington. He was situated on a large rock beside the water, a handheld mirror in one hand and a blade for shaving in the other. His jacket had been removed and was hanging from a branch nearby; his hair, which was usually tied back neatly, was resting in dark waves on top of his shoulders. As she moved in, he caught sight of her reflection in his mirror and turned. His light eyes seemed to burn with frustration, as if she had disrupted a private ritual that was very important to him. He dropped his mirror in the stream and, possessed by his inner demon, drew his pistol.

"William? It's me."

He remained unchanged by her presence. Several of his comrades began to stir from behind the nearby trees. When they realized that the approaching woman carried no weapon and posed no real threat, they returned to their complacency.

"Don't you recognize me?"

He lowered the pistol slightly, allowing Annabelle to move closer and closer. His face relaxed but those eyes, those terrible tempest-colored eyes continued to glare. Until at last, Annabelle reached out and touched his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol to rest beside the mirror in the shallow water. Her hand moved upwards, softly grazing the sharp, handsome features of his face. With each caress, the storm behind his eyes settled more and more. She leaned inward, weaving her fingers slowly through his dark mess of hair.

Neither of them spoke. The only reciprocation that Annabelle received in that moment was the slightest lean in her direction as he pressed his forehead to hers. His breath, once again, was warm and intoxicating. It moved across her lips like a phantom's kiss. One brief moment of this sensation sparked a longing within her to explore him further. She closed her eyes, gathering just enough courage to take her life's greatest leap of faith:

To Tavington, it was unlike any kiss he'd ever received. It wasn't heavy or filled with lust; but instead, as delicate and gentle as the water that was lapping at their feet. She paused only slightly, awaiting his confirmation. He granted her further passage with the sweet, unusual gesture of untying the old white ribbon at the base of her braid and storing it in his pocket as a simple souvenir of this moment. Then, Annabelle proceeded in soft intervals of contact and breath, giving him the sensation that a fairy had landed on his lips with every touch.

He could never rest comfortably anymore. Whenever Tavington found himself lost in admiration for the world around him, he was always pulled back into reality by occupational demands. It came as no surprise to him that it was a call to arms that pulled him from Annabelle in this moment. He tore out of her sweet kiss and collected his pistol and mirror.

"Get yourself away from here." He started to prepare himself for combat as Annabelle shadowed him in defiance. From a distance, Annabelle saw a line of familiar men on horseback.

"I know them, William. Gabriel Martin is my good friend. Please, can't we try to reason with-"

"What did I just say, Annabelle?! Have you ever stopped to consider just how much trouble you would have saved yourself if you'd listened each time I've asked you to run?" It was not a demand, more like a plea. "Stay by the river and keep low. I will come to you when it is over. Will you do that for me, my love?"

Before either of them could move, gunfire broke out. Despite her desire to remain at his side, Annabelle was unarmed and intent on following through with his wishes. She watched from a distance as her friends fell one by one. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Keeping her eyes locked on him, the man she loved, as he dodged death one second and delivered it another, didn't help in the slightest. When it came down to two, him and Gabriel, Annabelle started to gravitate towards them. There was no chance of reasoning with them earlier, yes, but perhaps now things would be different.

Neither Gabriel nor Tavington were aware of her approach. Even if she'd called out, they wouldn't have heard her in this pivotal moment. All that mattered was their dual, their marks, seeing the other dead at last. She saw that Gabriel had an edge before he did and that is why she ran- without giving it any thought, she ran. She leapt in front of the bullet and before it could reach him, it embedded itself deep in her mid-abdomen. Tavington dropped to her side in a cry.

"How?!" He asked, abandoning his pistol for her bloodied hand. "How could you do something so foolish!?"

"If you don't know by now, you are the fool, not I." The precious blush that nature had gifted her with was gradually vanishing from her cheeks and lips.

Gabriel watched them and seemed to know. "I know her." He said, seeing her face come into view as he moved closer.

"Take one more step, Boy. I dare you." Tavington warned, pressing on Annabelle's wound with all of his might to prevent any further blood loss..

"Please, let me help her." One glare from Tavington later, he knew that this wasn't going to happen. He matched his intensity, "I lost my wife today at your hand, Colonel. And I'm curious… how does it feel?"

There was no response. Gabriel escaped in the silence, knowing far well that vengeance could not be served under these circumstances. Meanwhile, Tavington remained by the stream, watching helplessly as the life of his beloved Annabelle spilled onto the cold ground in pools of crimson.


	14. Chapter 14

A steady breeze traveled through the camp, rocking the foundation of their tent. As Annabelle gained consciousness, she realized that her body was drenched in a cold sweat. The icy breeze from outside stung her skin as she moved, but any discomfort seemed to slip away when she saw who was by her side.

He was seated in a flimsy wooden chair, resting his head atop both of his arms which were folded on her cot, inches from her ribcage. The side of his face peeked through a curtain of his dark waves and Annabelle could see that his eyes were closed in sleep. She took a moment to admire him before speaking his name into the darkness.

As Tavington awoke, Annabelle tried to move closer; but the crippling pain in her abdomen from where the bullet had been removed prevented this.

"You must lie still." He whispered, stroking her damp forehead.

Annabelle reached for his hand. "I had to do it, William. Please understand. I had to do it to save you."

After a moment of searching for words, he nodded, expressionless. "Rest now."

Annabelle tried to shut her eyes, but it was impossible to relax. The more she hunted for an explanation for her actions, the more her body seemed to tremble in response to the cold. He moved back to his chair and pulled it as close to her cot as possible and, with great carefulness, rested his head against her heart. He listened closely, savoring every one of its beats.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you." Annabelle recalled aloud as her shaking subsided.

He smiled at this. "I thought you'd appreciate some Shakespeare. His words are immortal."

"My poems won't last a year after I'm gone." Annabelle said, half joking.

"Oh, my love. That is where you are wrong." He held back his tears as he listened to the weakness of her heartbeat and the shallowness of her breath. "The world has already immortalized you. You see Annabelle, you are like one of your fireflies; destined to grace this world with your light for a short period of time. But everything that you brought light to on your journey; every darkened pathway in the wood, every tree that stands lonesome and forlorn in an empty field… will remain eternally grateful for the gift of light that you bestowed upon them in their darkest hour."

Annabelle laughed only slightly as she meditated on his words. "As will every charming soldier who had no idea what fireflies were before meeting me." She traced the edge of his face with her trembling finger. "I loved you instantly."

"I still have no idea why." After a moment, he rose. From outside of the tent, he could see the softly diffused light of morning against the horizon. "Promise me something, Annabelle. I am to leave for battle at daybreak. Promise me that when I return, I will find you waiting."

She breathed deeply, feeling for the first time in her life, shrouded by her own mortality. The space was so cold and the world seemed to be growing darker despite the rising of the sun. She didn't want to make a promise that she could not keep.

"There is a piece of land," Tavington continued, passionately, "that I have been promised with my victory today. I wish to take you there with me when all of this is over. Just imagine, Annabelle, a vast expansion of rolling hills and tall trees of your very own to explore and seek inspiration within. You would be queen of your own country and I would be your king." He rose and started to prepare his attire for the day.

She smiled, enamored by his whim. "And this would be your last battle?"

He turned on his heel, piercing her soul yet again with his pale eyes. "I am nothing if I am not victorious."

There was so much more to discuss; but they didn't have time. For in this same moment, a call for Tavington came from outside of the tent. He crossed to Annabelle's side. Before sliding on his leather gloves, he smoothed his bare fingers across her golden crown of hair.

"Promise me." He reiterated.

"I promise."

A second call sounded. Feeling torn, he stood and headed for the outside. But something stopped him. Annabelle watched intently as he moved back, hoping a fool's hope that he'd changed his mind. There was no exchange of words, however. Only his kiss. It was deep, passionate and while it was unlike her own, it was still administered in a fashion that made Annabelle feel as though she was the most precious thing in all the world. Despite her lack of strength, she pulled him in for more. When the soldier outside called his name for a third time, she could feel his breathing was disturbed. Several heavy tears fell from his eyes and streaked the curvature of her face.

"I need you to promise me something, too, William. Return to me. Even if it means compromising your plan."

He retreated into his own space, but only slightly. As the light touched his face, Annabelle could see that his veil of strength had been lifted once more. He could not report like this. He needed far more comforting than she did in this moment. She shifted, fighting against the pain and with her forehead pressed against his, affectionately, recited her most recent poem:

 _He came to me at summer's end_

 _The man with tempest eyes_

 _He was neither foe nor friend_

 _But all the same, disguised_

 _He seemed to me a passing storm_

 _The kind that wounds the earth_

 _And departing, leaves nature torn_

 _While promising rebirth_

 _In time, I came to miss the rain_

 _This man with tempest eyes_

 _Perhaps if I endured the pain_

 _I'd find truth in his lies_

 _He saw the whole world, after all_

 _Through a foggy lens of grey_

 _Perhaps, if I unbuilt this wall_

 _He'd glimpse the light of day_

"I believe with all my heart that you will be victorious, William. But if you ever have to choose between victory or love, I beg you, choose this."

Then he left, like a cold wave departing a warm, sandy shore.

Annabelle waited alone, watching as the twilight transitioned into day. Before long, delirium accompanied her fever. In it, she achieved a heightened sense of hearing. Every gunshot, every blast from the faraway cannon's mouths seemed to resound in her bones. She knew that if she allowed herself to rest, she would surely slip into the clutches of death. Instead, she imagined that she was at his side during the hours that followed; fighting the same battle, avoiding the same blows. She thought of her dear father, too, and prayed that both sides would come to a peaceful resolve.

When the echoes from the battlefield subsided, Annabelle's strength began to falter. It was the noises that stayed her consciousness, nothing more. Although she longed to know the outcome, she'd exhausted herself by remaining awake throughout the day. Her heartbeat slowed significantly as she slipped into an empty, dreamless sleep.

Several hours later, Annabelle awoke to find a young man, clothed in a Green Dragoon uniform seated in William's chair. She breathed in quickly, fearing the news that he carried.

"Miss Casey, is it?" The young man asked, politely. "I'm happy to see that you are awake, my name is-"

"Where is he?" She interrupted, uninterested in formalities.

"Two tents over. He wanted to be closer, but we are dealing with hundreds of injuries and proximity is one luxury that we just can't offer at the moment…"

Without a moment's hesitation, Annabelle forced herself upright. She hardly gave her legs the time to find stability- honestly, she didn't need to. His presence seemed to pull her from within. She raced through the campsite, barely clutching her gaping wound. The young Green Dragoon followed closely.

"Miss Casey, I beg you. Take a moment to prepare yourself, at least. His injuries are grievous."

Grievous was not a great enough word. As she approached him, she could see that both his coat and the lovely white cravat beneath his chin were heavily stained with blood. Despite the grisly appearance of his wounds, he appeared to be resting peacefully, without any pain.

"Nobody thought that he would make it this long. It's as good as a mystery." He continued, trying to restrain Annabelle. But it was too late. She fell into the open space beside him as gently as a leaf descends to the earth, never to rise again.

"It's not a mystery at all." Annabelle whispered, settling her head on his shoulder. She monitored his breaths closely. "He promised me that he would return. Now, neither of us will have to go alone."

The tent was open at the front; it was just close enough for Annabelle to look through. She could see that the smoke and dust were departing on a westbound breeze. The opening in the heavens allowed several tiny stars to become visible. She didn't know until he spoke his final words that he was witnessing the same thing:

"So… homeward the stars went." Tavington said in a broken whisper that was only loud enough for Annabelle to hear.

In one final surge of energy, they reached for one another. Their heartbeats seemed to synchronize along with their breaths for only a moment before they slipped away into silence in perfect unison.

Solomon did not learn of his daughter's death until much later. By the time he'd asked enough questions to learn of her whereabouts, Annabelle Casey and William Tavington had already been laid to rest unceremoniously in a large, group grave. The notebook that she had in her possession that day found its way back to him after several months; since it contained Solomon's letters home, it was customarily mailed by the British to the church's address.

Tireless hours of sifting through its pages for answers gave Solomon little satisfaction. So, he penned a handful of letters to the company who mailed it to him and eventually, to Lord Cornwallis himself. He confirmed that Annabelle was associated with one William Tavington and while nobody knew the exact details of this association; they had died of mortal wounds while locked in a tight embrace on the 17th of January 1781.

He initially felt betrayed and tried many times to disprove what he had learned; but the evidence in the notebook was too strong. In time, the grief that he felt for the loss of his daughter outweighed all other emotions.

One evening during the following Summer, Solomon was leaving the schoolhouse with a large stack of parchment that needed grading, when he stopped by the tree for an apple. He chose the freshest one that he could find and shined it against the soft material of his shirt. Before he could take a bite, the apple slipped from his clutches and rolled across the ground, towards the nearby wood. He pursued the apple and picked it back up when it became entrapped in the undergrowth.

As he looked up, he saw that the forest was beginning to come alive with the vibrant glow of a thousand tiny fireflies. He stood and watched them for a while as the distant sun vanished beneath the horizon. He remembered how Annabelle used to capture fireflies in canning jars for her younger sisters. He began to draw parallels with the poetry and sketches in the notebook that he carried with him still to this day. The apple tree, the fireflies, and the watchful red fox… it all started to make sense. This was where they had first met.

Solomon reached into his breast pocket and removed the tiny book. He knew its pages by heart, it seemed. Even if he were to let it go now, he will still be able to recall every letter of every word that Annabelle had surrendered to it. He sought out a place where the ground was soft, dug out a hole with his fingertips and placed the notebook inside. Before covering it with the cold, damp earth, Solomon muttered a quiet prayer. Although this tiny semblance of ground was the only piece of land that Tavington would come to have to his name, you could find within it all of his silent wishes in one:

A quiet place to watch the seasons turn, admire every vein of every tiny leaf above his head and to remain always at the side of the woman who could immortalize each fleeting moment of beauty with a poem.

Fin


End file.
